


Just Another Miracle

by orphan_account



Series: Just Another Miracle [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock has a heart, TW for mild suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a prompt on the BBC Sherlock meme. Prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=128652550#t128652550</p><p>Sherlock gets a taste of what John went through after Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Miracle

 

The night air was cool on Sherlock’s face as he raced through a back alley, feet slipping slightly on the damp ground. London’s streets were laid out in perfect detail in his mind, a three-dimensional map that grew and changed with the city. He knew exactly where their target was headed and how to cut him off, and he allowed himself a surge of triumph as he whirled around another corner, following the path in his head.

For six months, the London in his mind had remained stagnant, the map folded up tight in a corner of his head that he didn’t dare touch. For six months the real city had gone on without him as he tried desperately to forget, to delete, unsure of how long the job would take. He had huddled under bridges and in deserted attics, wrapped in one of John’s old jumpers that he had stolen on a whim, and focused all the energy he had to spare on becoming as cold and detached as he could be. He couldn’t risk endangering the very thing he had gone to all that trouble to protect, and that meant letting go—of London, of his key to 221B, of the burning temptation to call John and just hear his voice, even if Sherlock couldn’t say anything.

Of course it hadn’t worked. He was an addict still, and cold turkey was too much to ask in this case. As Mycroft had said, when he’d caught his little brother cradling the jumper as though it were something precious, Sherlock had fallen victim to sentiment. Sherlock had glared at him and taken the file, which contained the location of the last sniper, without a word, and pushed the comment out of his mind. He’d had more than enough to occupy him then, and now…. Well, now he didn’t need to dwell on what life had been like without John. Now John’s footsteps mirrored his, just as they should. They were both in their element, John holding the gun as Sherlock led them on a hair-raising chase through London’s alleyways, and everything was back in its place.

Sherlock swept to a halt at the end of the street, peering around the corner through the gloom. The street was deserted but for an old dumpster and several beer bottles. John sidled up beside him, quietly catching his breath as he looked around.

“See anything?” John breathed. Sherlock could sense him tensed on the balls of his feet, prepared to leap out at a moment’s notice. He shoved aside the sudden warmth that spread through him. _Focus._

“We’re early,” Sherlock whispered back, his lips barely moving. “He isn’t here yet. I have time….” Trailing off, Sherlock edged into the open space.

“Sherlock!” John whispered behind him, his voice exasperated. It had taken John some time to accept that Sherlock was alive, and even now he tended to be a bit more protective of him than was strictly necessary. The detective tolerated it, understanding that it was in John’s nature to defend the people close to him, and that naturally his “death” would have animated those protective instincts.            

Sherlock ignored John, dashing across the open space towards the dumpster, his coat flapping behind him. There was a toolbox in there, and if he could just get his hands on it—

“Sherlock!” John yelled, his voice much closer now. Sherlock whirled around to see that John was now standing slightly beyond the alley, gun trained steadily on the shadows from which they had just emerged.

“John?”

The unmistakable sound of a gunshot cracked through the air, rattling Sherlock to his core. He started forward, adrenaline flooding his veins, but John was already falling, his head smacking the brick wall behind him. There was a bloom of red juxtaposing cruelly with John’s wide hazel eyes and then hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, tugging him backwards and throwing him to the ground against Sherlock’s increasingly frantic protests. The world spun as Sherlock tried to get to his feet, get to John _,_ but he was being kicked and held back and he couldn’t _see._ It registered hazily with him that their target had had an accomplice, of course, stupid, _stupid,_ but right now even that didn’t matter, nothing mattered but the seemingly endless distance between himself and John Watson.

Barely a minute could have passed before sirens wailed into the vicinity and the relentless kicking of Sherlock’s ribs ceased, but it felt like an eternity. The grit under his cheek was a mixture of sand and blood, and the street lurched when Sherlock tried to struggle to his feet. His vision was swimming, but he could still make out the blood surrounding John’s motionless figure. The sight made his stomach lurch. If he could just get to John, he could help him; he could do something, surely—

Paramedics swam suddenly into his view, blocking John from his sight, and Sherlock found himself unable to breathe. Panic clawed up his throat, and he staggered forward, intent on nothing but reaching John and making him all right. _Shot to the head,_ a voice in his mind said, sounding sickeningly like Moriarty. _What ever will you do without your pet?_

The voice burned his ears, reminding him of Semtex vests and nightmares in which he always got there too late. “Shut up,” he rasped, taking another shaky step forward. “Shut up, shut up.”

A hand closed around his arm. “Sir, we need to get you to a hospital—”

“No,” Sherlock said, pulling against the arm. “No, I have to—“

“Sir, please.” More hands settled on Sherlock’s body, and he pulled harder. He had to get to John. He’d miscalculated and now John was on the ground in a puddle of blood; _dead, dead,_ the Moriarty in his head was saying, and Sherlock heard a guttural yell ripped from his own throat. He thrashed his limbs as violently as he could, trying to shake off the clinging paramedics, but they hung like limpets and all Sherlock could do was struggle and yell John’s name until there was a jab in his arm and blissful, cold darkness claimed him.

***** 

Sherlock sat as still as a statue on the narrow hospital bed. His muscles were locked in place, keeping him frozen. Keeping him intact, because if he were to move, Sherlock was sure he would simply shatter apart. His eyes were fixed on the foot of the bed, but he didn’t see it. He couldn’t see anything except the color of John’s eyes and the blood that had trickled down and obscured them, drowned them.

 Sherlock had woken to a disorienting whiteness and a sickening sense that something was horribly, irreparably wrong. It hadn’t taken him long to remember, but even then he had tried to deny it. _No,_ he had thought. _No,_ _it can’t be_. Because John wasn’t supposed to leave him. Nobody was supposed to touch John Watson. Sherlock had spent six bloody months ensuring that John was safe, because Sherlock needed John, needed him more than he’d ever had any hope of articulating.   _No, no, no,_ he’d thought, over and over, trying to drown out the images of John’s face that swam in his head. But cursed as he was with a scientist’s brain, Sherlock couldn’t keep out the whispers of logic.

 _Shot to the head,_ they said. _Don’t give yourself false hope. It was always going to be your fault in the end,_ they said.

It was as though Sherlock had lost his tether to life. Nothing seemed real. He didn’t want anything from this world that was lacking something so vital. He didn’t want air in his lungs if it came from a universe that had no John, nor did he want to see the sun rise on a world that no longer deserved it. He hated every molecule of this planet that insisted on turning despite a loss it clearly could not comprehend.

Warring instincts burned along Sherlock’s frozen body as he sat staring at his feet. He wanted to scream and never stop, let the anguish rip from his throat until he himself had been obliterated by the sheer force of it. He wanted to rip apart every fucking object, every human being in the city until he found the people responsible for John’s demise. And then, inevitably, he would have to turn on himself, as he was to blame. He wanted to shrink away from the light and the noise and pretend it had never happened, hide himself in his mind palace where every detail of John’s existence was stored away in the most intimate quarters. So he sat, remaining perfectly still as dangerous tension thrummed through his body.

Dimly, he wondered how long he would last.

A nurse entered. Sherlock would have been surprised by the violent hatred that surged up in him as she began talking if he could muster the energy, but outwardly he displayed no reaction. She waved a hand in front of his face. Sherlock continued to stare straight ahead. The nurse left, but the scorching hatred remained.

Sherlock’s limbs began to tremble. He noted the fact with disinterest. Perhaps he would collapse here, now, and it would all be over. It was over for him in any case, he could see that. Cocaine would never be enough to fill the void John had left behind. Perhaps, if he were lucky, that void would simply swallow him too.

The curtain stirred again. Sherlock looked away, not wanting to see the nurse’s face. She, like the air and the sunlight and every other wretched facet of this reality, belonged to a world that had nothing left to give Sherlock. A world that couldn’t possibly understand what it meant that John was no longer. No longer anything. He screwed his eyes shut against the onslaught of memories, only jolting out of it when a familiar name turned his attention to the person at his side.

“—all right, Sherlock. John is all right. His condition is improving, there were no complications, and he is awake. Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. It took him a moment to register Mycroft’s face, looking at him with an uncharacteristically unguarded expression of concern.

“Ah. Glad to see I’ve got your attention.”

“What?” Sherlock said, his voice ragged.

Mycroft sighed minutely, shifting closer to Sherlock’s bed. “John is recovering. The bullet merely grazed his temple, although the fall left him unconscious.”

Sherlock stopped breathing for a second. Something like wild hope was coursing through his veins, making him momentarily dizzy. “Where?” He asked, nearly choking on the word.

“Sherlock—”

“ _Where,_ Mycroft?” Sherlock couldn’t believe it, not yet, but if there was the slightest chance—

“Room 394.”

Sherlock was out of the bed in a heartbeat, swaying slightly on his feet. He made for the curtain, but Mycroft stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“At least take this,” he said, holding out Sherlock’s dressing gown. Sherlock grabbed the garment and flung it over his shoulders, his movements feverish. He was still shaking, but he would make it down the stairs. He had to.

***** 

Sherlock flew down the hallway, dodging people and carts and sliding around corners with his hand brushing along the wall to keep him steady. There were a few people waiting at the elevators, but Sherlock passed them by, heading instead towards the emergency staircase. The elevator would take longer than Sherlock could bear. Luckily there was no alarm on the door to the staircase, and Sherlock’s bare feet pattered down it, nearly toppling him down once when his dressing gown caught on the banister. He wrenched it free and hurtled out into the hallway, the room numbers swirling around him as he tried to take stock of his surroundings. He was close; John’s room was just a little ways to the right….

Sherlock nearly missed door 394 in the flurry. He stumbled to a halt, his pulse racing, and stood in front of it. The door was perfectly nondescript, and yet Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to touch it. John was either behind that door, or he was gone. Breath escaped Sherlock’s lips in frantic gusts as he wavered, panic mounting again in his chest. He briefly entertained the notion of simply remaining here, where there was still hope. If he opened the door and John wasn’t there, it would be the end of him; of that, Sherlock was certain.

A minute passed before Sherlock laid his hand tentatively on the door handle and pushed down, the click of the latch seeming to be rivaled in volume only by the pounding of his heart. He drifted inside, his eyes locking onto the only object in the room that mattered: the narrow hospital bed, on which a very familiar figure lay wrapped in a thin blanket.

The door snapped shut behind him as Sherlock stood and stared, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat. He stepped closer, and John’s face turned towards him, lighting up when their eyes met.

“Sherlock,” he said, and the sound of his name was nearly enough to bring Sherlock to his knees. “They said you weren’t talking.”

Sherlock worked his tongue, trying to make a sound, but nothing came out. He walked closer on shaky legs, drinking in the sight of John alive and here and _safe_. John frowned at him, sitting up a bit as Sherlock reached his bedside.

“Sherlock?”

A sound escaped Sherlock’s throat as he sucked in a breath, trying to steady himself. He reached out a trembling hand, cautiously, still unsure whether the John he was seeing was real.  John looked down at the hand, and then back at Sherlock’s face, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. He closed the distance, lifting his own hand to take Sherlock’s.

“Jesus, Sherlock, you’re freezing. Are you all right?”

Sherlock blinked at the warmth of John’s hand. When he squeezed, experimentally, it remained solid. He stared at it, and suddenly the trembling in his legs was too much; his knees buckled, and only John’s quick tug on his arm saved him from falling to the ground. As it was, he landed on the bed just next to John’s leg, feeling as though his entire body was crumbling from relief.

“Clearly you should not have gotten out of bed.” John paused, surveying Sherlock with his hazel eyes—eyes which Sherlock had last seen spattered with blood. Sherlock’s breath stuttered at the memory, and John squeezed his hand hard.

“Hey, okay, Sherlock, look at me. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock swallowed, mentally willing his vocal cords back into action. “John,” he managed, his voice shaky. “I—I thought—I thought you were….” He squeezed John’s hand, the nails digging in harder than he intended. “Dead.” The last word cracked as the lump in his throat seemed to triple in size.

John let out a long breath and leaned back against the pillows. “Well,” he said, and there was something odd in his voice, something hard underneath a veil of concern. “I suppose now you know how it feels.”

The realization hit Sherlock like a punch to the gut. John had been through this too. _He_ had put John through this. There was a moment of silence as the room swam around him again, and then Sherlock felt his face crumple.

He pulled his hand from John’s grasp and turned away, feeling his features lock instinctively into a blank mask as violent tremors threatened to wrack his body again. His hands flew up to his face, hiding himself from John’s eyes as his control wavered, and he bit his lip, harder and harder until he tasted blood, trying not to fall apart now because John had dealt with this for _six months_. He would never have wanted to bring this degree of pain on the person he most wanted to protect. He supposed it must have been similar, in any case—John was a caring person, even if he didn’t strictly need Sherlock in the same way Sherlock needed John. Because for John, there could be other people. But this, this would have hit John hard because John was already prone to guilt. And he’d let John suffer from it for so long.

A trickle of wetness touched Sherlock’s palm, and he bent forward, alarmed at the unbidden appearance of tears. Grinding his palms into his eyes in an effort to prevent the flow, he drew in a shaky breath, willing himself calm. It didn’t work. Dismay worked its way into the melee as Sherlock realized that he could not get control of himself. He didn’t want John to see this. It was nonsensical; _he_ was the one who had wronged John, and yet it was he who was currently shattering into pieces.

Suddenly there were hands tugging at him, pulling him back up the bed. Sherlock fought them, trying to remain curled in a stiff ball, but John’s strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him back up to where he was resting. Sherlock turned his head away, struggling to maintain control of his breathing. The tears were slowly winning the battle, beginning to leak out from behind his eyelids, and Sherlock made a surreptitious attempt to wipe his face on his shoulder without John noticing.

The doctor was having none of it. “Look, Sherlock. That wasn’t—I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. Hey, it’s okay, Sherlock. You can let go. Just let go.” John brought Sherlock closer to him, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his back.

Sherlock’s breathing stuttered as he fought down the sobs. “I’m sorry, John,” he said, his voice hatefully raw. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I don’t deserve this. Your forgiveness.”

John was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “I saw the state of you when you got back, Sherlock; even if you won’t talk about it, I can tell it wasn’t easy for you either. I’ve—come to terms with it. I understand why you did what you did.” He paused. “We’ve already had the ‘if you do that again I won’t make it’ conversation—”

Sherlock cut him off. “I know,” he said roughly. “I know what that…feels like. When I woke up, I—I didn’t want to—” He stopped, the memory breaking through his control and more tears flooding his vision.

John cradled him at his side, running a hand gently through his curls. “My old therapist would have a field day with this kind of codependency,” he murmured, his voice wry. Then he sighed, deeply, the breath wafting across Sherlock’s forehead. “I am sorry, Sherlock. I wouldn’t wish this kind of—this kind of shock on anyone.” He paused, and added, “especially not on you.” 

“Even though I put you through it? For six months? Why?”

“Because you jumped off a building to save me, Sherlock, and god knows what else judging from the scars on your back. And because I couldn’t function properly without you around. And because, of all the things to break the great Sherlock Holmes’ control, it was thinking I was dead.” John smoothed a hand down Sherlock’s taut arm, winding his fingers in between Sherlock’s when he reached the end. He squeezed lightly, and then maneuvered their hands so that two of Sherlock’s fingers were pressed against his pulse point. Sherlock seized onto the anchor gratefully, closing his eyes and counting John’s pulse. It took 197 beats, but he found the tremors beginning to subside as John’s heartbeat steadied him.

*****

Sherlock blinked his eyes open to find John looking at him, practically radiating concern. It was a look at which Sherlock would normally have scoffed, but now he drank it in, treasuring the life in those eyes. For a moment he just looked at John, more grateful for this than he’d ever been in his entire life. His breathing quieted, and John smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. 

“Better?”

Sherlock swallowed, his eyes flicking down to where his hand was still wrapped around John’s wrist. He felt that he should probably let go, but the thought of severing the connection to John’s warm, living skin was too much, so he held on.

“I’m sorry, John, I don’t—that was excessive.” He cleared his throat, bringing his eyes back up to John’s face. “And I am sorry about those six months. I never imagined that loss would be so….” He trailed off, the corners of his mouth tugging downwards. John reached his free hand up and rubbed them gently with his thumb. He sighed.

“It was awful, Sherlock; I’ve told you. I’m, well, I’m flattered, a bit, that you….care enough to react the way I did.” John paused. “But how could you not expect it to hurt me when you jumped?”

Sherlock frowned down at their hands. “I thought—you have other people, John. All those women, and—you know. Not like me. It was a misjudgment on my part. I neglected to factor in your naturally caring nature.”

John was quiet for a moment. When Sherlock chanced a glance upwards, he was looking at Sherlock incredulously.

“Sherlock,” John began slowly, his forehead creasing again. “You’re the most important person in my life. You know that, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s breath stuttered a little on the exhale. “There’s no need for that. I understand—”

“No.” John cut him off sharply. “You’re more important to me than any of the women I dated. For god’s sake, they all dumped me because of it!”

“Don’t say that to me,” Sherlock snarled, looking at a point beyond John’s shoulder. “Please,” he added, more gently.

“Why?”

Sherlock sighed, frustrated. “It’s come to my attention that I have something of a weakness regarding you, John, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it—believe me, I’ve tried, I tried for six months—and it doesn’t help when you drag it out like that. It just makes it worse, so if you will kindly shut _up_ about me being important to you I’d—I would greatly appreciate it.” Sherlock looked away, his jaw twitching. He hadn’t meant for that to come out. He hadn’t even allowed himself to really think it yet.

“What are you saying?” John asked, and his voice was quiet. Too quiet. Sherlock looked around to see a carefully blank expression on John’s face. Carefully blank, but not blank enough to hide some kind of raw emotion underneath. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at it, trying to deduce what John was hiding, but the man himself interrupted his thoughts.

“Stop deducing me, Sherlock, and answer the question.”

Sherlock hesitated. He wasn’t quite sure what the answer was himself, but there was one word that had been hovering in his mind for quite some time now. He’d been very careful not to look at it, but it had always been there, burning brighter when Sherlock had used John’s jumper as a pillow in Jaipur. Hovering over his shoulder when he’d seen John for the first time in six months. And now, perched on the tip of his tongue. A domino ready to topple.

“Sherlock. Please. Whatever it is, it’s fine. It’s—it’s all fine.” John squeezed his hand when Sherlock didn’t respond. “Sher—”

Something in Sherlock broke. “I love you, John!” He snapped, his voice loud and shot through with bitterness. “I love you. All right? There’s your answer. I’m sorry; I’ve tried to delete it, I’ve tried not to think about it. Nothing works. It won’t affect our relationship in the slightest, there’s no need to worry, I’ve gone on this long and as long as you don’t go _dying_ on me all should be, as you say, _fine_ —”

Sherlock was interrupted by warm hands on his shoulders and then on his face, tugging him downwards. His eyes snapped to John’s face, and the expression on it stole his breath away. John was looking at him with unguarded fondness, and his eyes were wide and tender. He pulled Sherlock towards him, and Sherlock gave in, unable to resist.

John’s lips were soft, pressing against Sherlock’s insistently, and Sherlock’s normally iron control gave way. He melted at the sensation of John’s skin against his own and pressed back, whimpering slightly when John’s mouth opened, deepening the kiss. It was warm and eager and Sherlock could taste John, could pick out his unique flavor. He’d dreamt of this, of John touching him the way John touched his girlfriends, but he could never have conjured this in his mind. It was mesmerizing.

Sherlock opened his mouth further and pressed against John more firmly, his hands reaching up to run over John’s chest through the fabric of the hospital gown. It was as though all of the walls he had constructed in his mind palace to hide these forbidden fantasies were crashing down, overwhelming him in their intensity. He wanted John to hold him, yearned for the feeling of John’s hands on his skin. Needed to know what John tasted like and the exact aroma of every part of his body. He needed to be absolutely certain that John was here, safe, living. There didn’t seem to be enough air in the room suddenly, but it didn’t matter—breathing was boring—and Sherlock continued to press his face against John’s, drowning in the exquisite sensation of the kiss. It wasn’t until he registered the return of tears on his face that Sherlock jolted out of his trance.

 _“Fuck,”_ Sherlock cursed, careening backwards and nearly falling from the bed as he scrubbed hard at his face, angrily dragging his fingernails across the delicate surface of his skin. Blurry spots were obscuring his vision and his heart was pounding, something like terror and the vestiges of grief rising and mixing with heady arousal and overwhelming joy. It was too much, crashing over him in a cacophony of disorder. All he wanted was _John_ , but panic was beginning to claw back up his throat and Sherlock dug his nails into his face, trying desperately to quell it.

Warm hands grasped his, pulling them away from his face once again.

“Breathe, Sherlock. I need to you to breathe.” John’s hand circled slowly on his back, and Sherlock found himself slowly matching his breathing to the pace of John’s stroking. His heart slowed slightly, no longer trying to escape from his chest, and the fear pumping through his veins was reduced to a low simmer. He cracked his eyes open, hating himself for having lost control _again,_ and just when things were going well. It was patently ridiculous; he was making a complete fool of himself in front of the man he was supposed to be impressing. Or comforting. Or…. seducing?

Sherlock felt his lips twist into a sneer, disgusted at himself. “I’m sorry John,” he said brusquely, pulling his hands away and drawing himself up into a less pathetic posture. “I am a hideous wreck today. I completely understand if you—if you—” Sherlock found himself trailing off, unable to complete the sentence. _If you want me to go._ He didn’t want to go. He wasn’t sure he was ready to be in any place that did not contain proof of John Watson’s continued existence.

“Don’t you dare say something stupid. I don’t want you to leave, or shut down or—or go all _aloof_. You are far from hideous,” John added, the crease between his eyebrows deepening when Sherlock winced.  “Sherlock, you’re _bloody gorgeous._ ” He paused, cocking his head slightly and looking at Sherlock with those deep hazel eyes. “Want to tell me what happened there?”

Sherlock swallowed, looking down. His hands, long and pale, lay barely six inches from John’s, but the distance already felt unnatural. “I’m sorry,” he said again, a torrent of words bursting from nowhere and stumbling over themselves in his mind. “I just. I never thought you would…. I’ve thought about this. Too much. I, uh, I’ve tried not to. But. And not just the, the kissing, or any of that, although—well. But other things. I never expected you to reciprocate. I just tried to—not think about it.” His hands stirred, curling into fists. “And then I thought I’d _lost_ you, and— _god_ , John, I. I have _nightmares_ about that. And then you kissed me and it was everything I thought I couldn’t have and.” Sherlock drew in a shaky breath. “You’ll realize your mistake. I’m not. You can’t love me back. You _can’t._ ” Sherlock hissed the words through his teeth, staring down at the sheet clutched in his fists.

“Sherlock,” John said, and his voice was so tender that Sherlock had to close his eyes against the twist of his heart. “Sherlock... I do. I love you. I have for ages, I think, but I didn’t realize it until—until you jumped. I’m sorry. But I absolutely _can_ love you back; in fact, it comes more easily to me than anything.” John’s hand came up to stroke Sherlock’s shoulders, softening the stiff line of his muscles. He leaned up and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, eliciting a soft intake of breath from the taller man. “It’s not a mistake,” John said, more quietly. “I’m not going to change my mind, Sherlock.”

Sherlock leaned slightly into John’s touch, already unable to maintain the distance. His mind was screaming at him that this was a terrible idea on so many levels. John couldn’t keep this up. John couldn’t be serious. Sherlock would screw it all up in any case, and John would leave. John would hate him. Or John would be ashamed of him. Or disgusted with him. John would regret his decision and Sherlock would have to watch while he went back to dating boring, vapid women. Or worse, boring, vapid men. There was no way for this to end well, and yet Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from turning his face back toward John’s and accepting the soft kiss to his lips. _Sentiment._ He’d always known it was a dangerous game, and here he was, losing. Giving in to temptation. It was worse than cocaine.

“All right,” Sherlock whispered against John’s skin, incapable of being logical when the warmth of that skin still seemed miraculous. “All right, John.”

John’s arms encircled him, pulling him close, and his lips pressed briefly against Sherlock’s head. “Good. I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shivered, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He pressed his nose to John’s neck and breathed deeply. Whatever painful rejection awaited him, at least he could have this now. “I love you, John.”


End file.
